


Sherlock Holmes and The Case of Hanging Harry

by i_wish_i_could_hibernate, Idontreallyknowanymore



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: 220 Baker Street, 221B Baker Street, Death, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I dont know what to tag, Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Mystery, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-05-30 08:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15093077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_wish_i_could_hibernate/pseuds/i_wish_i_could_hibernate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idontreallyknowanymore/pseuds/Idontreallyknowanymore
Summary: “It’s my Dad! It’s my Dad!” She cried, almost screaming. “I just saw him there – up there – swinging-”





	1. The Girl

It was a quiet evening, for the average homosapien at least. Sherlock, however, had never experienced silence. You see, his mind worked in overdrive – even when he sought refuge in his apartment 221B Baker Street away from the chaos that lay waiting on the other side, he still heard. He heard the gentle singing of the fridge’s electric system; he heard the light sweeping brushes of Mrs Hudson’s feather duster upon oak furniture; the regular, and somewhat reassuring, breathing of his best friend, John Watson, who had situated himself at the desk and was now tip tapping away at the computer as he updated his blog on the adventure they’d had yesterday involving the faeces of a pigeon laced with cocaine. The sounds were soft and blended together – they were unimportant, after all – yet they were there all the same. Sherlock, spurred on by the intrigue of the phenomenon of silence, had once locked himself in an anechoic chamber to attempt to still the vibrations of his cochleas. But, although the physical sound waves ceased to exist, the voices in his mind became restless and took advantage of their opportunity to be listened to with the entirety of Sherlock’s attention. They had soon become unbearable, screaming at him, interrogating him on every decision he’d ever made and every decision he ever would make. He’d stumbled out of the chamber on the brink of a panic attack; beads of sweat congregating on his forehead, his heart rate almost doubling with the sudden surge of adrenaline. 

But, for the moment at least, it was a relatively quiet day for Sherlock Holmes. Unusual, really, for there always seemed to be something going on in Sherlock’s life: Watson needing rescuing, maybe, or Mrs. Hudson. Or, as with yesterday’s case, a pigeon off its head with drugs flapping its wings in a frenzy and nearly giving Mrs. Hudson a panic attack as it swooped over her head and left droppings on her prized grandfather’s clock – always something. And though he understood that the average human generally embraced this tranquillity as time to recuperate from a busy day at school, work etc., he could not relax. He felt a subtle, yet consistent tingle of anxiety buzzing away in his heart, his mind, his gut.  
Like a patient waiting to undergo brain surgery, or a police officer waiting for the break in the static of his radio. He could sense something was about to go down, and each tick of the clock just reminded him that it, whatever it would be, was getting closer.

Suddenly, there was a cry from downstairs.

“You’ve got a visitor, Sherlock! Now, be nice, she seems-”

The door to their shared room flung open and a girl came crashing through and collapsed to the floor on her knees.

“Help me, help me!” Her wails pierced through the silence. 

“Ah,” remarked Sherlock. “This is more like it! I was being driven mad, stuck-” Upon receiving a disapproving glare from Watson, he realised the gravity of this young girl’s situation, and promptly shut up. 

Watson lowered his gaze from Sherlock and instead rested it upon the girl on the floor. The doctor within him sent him pacing towards her, asking all the crucial questions. 

“Are you hurt? Can you tell me your situation? How old are you?”

Her breathing was staccato: rapid and interrupted constantly by several chocking sobs. Her hair was wild, unbrushed. Several stray strands were plastered across her cheeks and forehead, held in place by the stickiness of drying tears. She peered up at Sherlock and Watson, and heaved in a desperate lungful of air. 

“It’s my Dad! It’s my Dad!” She cried, almost screaming. “I just saw him there – up there – swinging-”

“Where is he?” interrupted Watson. “Does he need a doctor?”

The girl suddenly became quiet, and as she stared into Sherlock’s eyes, said 

“It’s too late. He’s already dead.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: suicide
> 
> Imagine the message is written in fancy handwriting. I could't figure out how to change the text on here :'-)

Chapter Two  
A storm cloud of silence hung over the group (Mrs. Hudson thought it best to attend the scene also, incase the men needed any support in the emotional aspect of this case  
) as they approached the morbid sight before them. The man was hung like a neglected puppet, his head drooping downwards as if he was praying, or had simply nodded off to sleep. From his mouth there lolled a bulbous and purpling slab of tongue.  
“When did you find him?” Sherlock questioned the young girl, who had just told them her name was Maxine.  
“I woke up this morning on my own at about 9am. Usually Dad wakes me up, at 7am to make sure I’m not late for school, so I hadn’t set my alarm. I looked in his room and, when I realised he wasn’t there, I called for him downstairs. When there was no reply I knew something was wrong. I threw on some clothes and rushed outside. That’s when I saw him. Just hanging there.” She was twisting her hands together, eyes brimming with tears that had not yet fallen.   
Then she let out a pitiful wail, and collapsed into Mrs Hudson’s arms. The landlady tutted in despair at the young girl’s situation, shot a pleading glance at Sherlock to remind him to be sensitive, and began to stroke Maxine’s hair and she sobbed and snotted onto her shoulder. John and Sherlock shared a awkward glance, obviously both uncomfortable with the situation, before proceeding to stride towards the corpse.   
The man was dressed in a smart black and white suit, possibly a believer in arriving in the afterlife in the clothes he had died in. Almost immediately, Sherlock spotted and retrieved a folded up note that peered out of the jacket’s blazer like a pocket square. He held it out so that both he and Watson could see the message, which read:  
D e a r e s t M a x i n e,   
I ’ m s o r r y. I ’ v e t r i e d f o r s o l o n g t o b e s t r o n g - f o r y o u : m y e v e r y t h i n g . Y o u ’ r e t h e s u n s h i n e t o m y w i l t i n g f l o w e r ; t h e t r i b u t a r y t o m y l a k e . Y o u ’ v e s u p p l i e d m e , p r o v i d e d m e w i t h l i f e a n d p u r p o s e , y e t I a m a f r a i d I a m t o w e a k t o c a r r y o n . I a m a p l a n t t o f a r s c o r c h e d t o b e r e v iv e d ; a n a r r oy o a f t e r y e a r s o f d r o u g h t .   
A f t e r y o u r m o t h e r d i e d , I s w o r e t o h e r t h a t I w o u l d c a r e f o r y o u f o r e v e r a n d l o v e y o u t i l t h e d a y I d i e d. And a l t h o u g h I b r o k e n m y p r o m i s e t o c a r e f o r y o u f o r e v e r , I a s s u r e y o u t h a t I w i l l l o v e y o u u n t i l t h e v e r y l a s t b e a t o f m y h e a r t.   
H a r r y

 

“Hmmm.” Sherlock stood still as he pondered the suicide note for a moment, then asked, “Mrs. Hudson? Would you like to take Maxine back to the apartment whilst I deal with this rather….unfortunate situation. Maybe fix her up a cup of tea? That does seem to be the most common way for British people to deal with a traumatic experience such as this. Am I correct?”

And, as the young girl disappeared upstairs, Sherlock would explain to John how was not as innocent as she had initially seemed…...


End file.
